Good Night!

Is that better

 That betwixt

         Yesterday and today

That between

      The far 

Or?

 The sunlight cats are mewling

Are there syntax?

   Well there's Death

       That's fo sho

      

But the sin tax

Of the Sol

  The Soul

      

 Hah! I've got you!

 Like little Jack

    At his First Baseball Game

 Good Niche

   No Noche 

    For you

  Ah have a heart

    For once!

 Who?

    would perform

    In performative

    review

  The staunch episodic

 Renewal of mattress delivery?

    I, for one, was ready

    Yes! I said 

     I can help! 

 The creep

     Is measured

         By Chthonian steps

             The demons of the Underwear

                Plagued her insoles

          Chapped and battered

      Like a cream of mushroom soup recipe

Yuk- it's really 

   Justinian

      The Romanesque

 Arrive

   On the banks of Tiberius shores

With rounded bits of clay pots 

  In the water

     

 The dream perforce

    A flat No

      Stemming from the port 

         Or Amontillado stinky breath

 

  Arms like a hurrah

     Were in fact a cloudy day in 

   The east of Norway

       Tundra, sly that

Cat -

   With whiskers

    And well, ya know,

       The way home

 Past the broken Telly

At the corner

 Rust Fish Factory

   Sept 26

     Surely the harvest must be real

    There is no notion

   Like a true Saturday calling

    The phone was rung

       And a Rust Fish harvester 

     Was on it!

    

 Some sorry cancattanense 

    Of Kitty cat syntactically 

    In heightened botified 

    Rebrugenance- Nay!

    I shan't be perforce 

  Nor remiss in my squawking hubris- 

Sir Evandielo bemused

  Outside night was gloomy and windy

    The shopkeeper told of his trips to two Naytional parks

In Russian accented English

  As the Kind Sir bought a can of Vodka Mule

 Crept away

    The cephalopods of night

       With names like Grant and Reginald

      Entombed in their skin

    Frozen in the Dream

   Of castles in desert fog

     Trees of stone towering above their heads

     And the lights shine all night

     As you press your coat tighter and try 

Not to be noticed

   There's talk on the walk

      And your walls are stamped and

Approved 

  Three steps to your right and down 

The shady hall, sir

   Your leg is cramped but you hobble on

   The linoleum is worn and tattered

     The fluorescent light

  Hurts your eyes but the night stars are

Bright in the Saskatchewan Desert Gloom

  A snowball is left at the hotel 

And you pick your way to Room 238

  And it's Good Night!

 Ease that Blofeldt flesh

    Can of corn

        Driving them back 

Thru solid waist

      Stations of the spiral jets

    Insipid

    miracles

    of the downtrodden 

     Psyche

        afternoons in

         Gloom

   Great Gloomy

 FOG

   in the hate

   Breaking BAROOOM

   LIKE candlesticks

       In the streets

     Succor them like potash

    Little pig eyes

 Squeel

 In April the fish heads gathered

     In protest

        The Rust Fish must not be harvested!!

  But in the forest 

     Near the broken washing machines

     And dirty piles of snow

     The foreign workers

         Were nonplussed

     "We are just trying to earn an honest days labor"

 They whinnied.

    The Calico fish heads would not have it.

"We Shan't be Stymied from Fish Head destiny Emeritus!"

But the workers kept working and the Rust Fish were harvested by the tonnage. 

Sad story but true.

 

 He sold the parts

      Of the eyelids

    To the farmer's daughter 

    She took them in and sewed them

     To the maple tree buckets

    So she could see 

   In the deep dark forest

 The foggy 

     cantankerous dice throwing

      of le vie

     De chose 

        Breaking the arm

    On the breakfast cart

   See?

    No? oh well

    Let's try agin 

    Take the wheel

 It's a tribulation 

   Of sorts

   We see the past

      In our fog

         The hills 

    Speak 

   "Hey fuckstick"

  What are you cryin bout now?

My arm

Is broke

    Oh

 I'm sorry

    

     

 He tried the trap door but it was no go.

 The boat was old and the paint 

    was chipping off. 

On the back was neatly painted 

"The Fish Witch"

  "It's a few hours out there but once we get there

    everything will be cool, you'll see."

I couldn't really reply with the rag in my mouth and my hands and feet tied with coarse rope.

I just nodded. 

 Two Fish said he was part Navajo.

"What part?" I asked.

He turned and looked at me.

"My dick."

 La basketa 

  was filled with withered hands.

     Some had dried blood on them and some looked

like they'd been washed and cleaned with alcohol.

  It was the fourth day day of the fourth month. 

I studied the calendar looking for a virtuous entreaty

 But my sense of self was wandering.

"Maybe after lunch I'll go for a walk."

   I said to an empty room.

 Some flying fish were left in the old boat.

"Just leave them there, we'll use them for bait tomorrow."

He knew I wouldn't be around tomorrow.

"But..." ah it didn't matter 

  But I took one and put it in my coat pocket.

 

 A lover of bluefish 

  He was known in certain circles.

    His tie was askew but he smiled and passed himself off

As someone who gave a shit.

 The appeal was denied so I busted him over the head and undid the handcuffs. It wasn't that hard to escape. I took his money out of his wallet and handcuffed him to the pipe. That ought to keep him.

  The sun was just coming up when I got in a cab. 

"Good morning!"

 Across 

   The fish mortuary

    Attuned to millions

       Of bony headstones

     He sat in a muddy pool of mud

     With a fishing pole

  And a map of New Jersey

  "See here now, if we take the expressway to the 

Innerstate we'll be almost halfway there. Then it's city streets for the rest of the day. See?"

  I didn't see but I said yes. What else was I going to do?

 Two Nodes

    Was half Arapahoe but I 

Didn't know it at the time.

     He just looked like his parents were from 

 Yemen or someplace.

    The things he said wouldn't really

Make sense. But I was used to it. 

It was another hot day.

 I had a

   Whisper

    In a book

      A strategy

 To retrieve the 

     solid sunrise

    I measured it in empty bottles

  of cinnamon whiskey

  And lay in bed 

     Smoking and wondering 

Why.

 La crema 

    of the normal day

     a transparent malady

     Upended in a vase

       Stymied

 And supplicated 

       Like Jayne Mansfield 

 He counted on two fingers

   The only two left after the pistola explodido 

 The alloy was nickel

      And myrtlefish bones

   Perfected by a daily dose of corn extract

 The sub prime operator 

      Foreclosed on his backache

     The stench filled his nostrils

    Of forms and #2 pencil lead shavings

      His bluish grey eyes 

     Were rimmed with bloodshot veins

       As he opened a can of Campbell's Mushroom Soup

   "It'll be over when it's over." He kept repeating to himself.

  Outside the sun was setting on a perfectly lovely day.

 The lights were crashing down

    Somewhere over on the hill

   We got back in the car and drove back up the road

    No one said a thing

 PICTURE OF A DEAD EUPHEMISM

 Picture of a dead euphemism 

   Like a sprite

    Embalmed in eau de cologne

       Her wings like gossamer 

         Eaten by the insect maggots